Maeve wants to throw the phone through the window. Her voice shakes: “Put Talia on, will you?”

“Not gone! Dead. Dead! Say it, Maeve. He’s dead.”

But Maeve doesn’t. Her face tightens. She won’t respond.

The dining room is dark when Maeve arrives. She wavers at the entrance, checks her phone. It seems odd. Maybe she got the time wrong?

“Hello?” She takes a few cautious steps over the threshold, her voice lost in the big room. To her left, there’s a scratching noise—she turns, and the place lights up.

She’s not alone after all. Maeve pulls up short. He’s got his back to her, checking some kind of lighting panel. She knows it’s him because of his size—easily six foot four. That, and he’s wearing the orange tuque.

He turns and sees her and removes the hat.

“Sorry about that.” He points to the lights, then strides forward, almost too eagerly. Maeve finds herself backing up. “Daniel Darling.” He says it proudly—his real name!—reaching out a hand and taking hers to shake, confident but also warm. “Anything you need, anything at all, just ask. I’m the only one here who’s actually from here, you know?”

“You’re from High Water?”

“Born less than two hours away. Spot called Hope Lake.” There’s a pause before he lets go of her hand. “You can just call me Dan.”

“Dan,” she repeats, then realizes that she hasn’t introduced herself. “I’m Mae—”

He cuts her off. “Maeve. I know. I saw you last night, coming out of the dance studio. I was—” He glances over her shoulder, just long enough that Maeve checks to see if anyone is behind her. But there’s no one. “I had some work to do on one of the cabins,” he says, refocusing. He’d almost said hello, he says, only he didn’t want to startle her.

His brow furrows. “And then Nielssen came along.”

Maeve nods, trying to catch up. He didn’t want to startle her? He’s too big, really, to sneak up on anyone. He keeps on, though, ducking his head as he speaks, almost shy.

“I’ve got a whole storage room downstairs full of equipment. Whatever you like: skis, snowshoes, you name it. You’ve only got to ask.”

She tries to match his smile.

“Probably won’t risk the skis,” she says. “Hard to dance on a broken ankle, right?” But this draws his attention down the length of her body and she hurries to think of something else to say. “Do you—make any art yourself?” It’s the only polite question she can muster.

He just looks at her, confused, then shakes his head.

There’s a hoot, and behind him the kitchen door swings open: Justin, a bottle of wine in each hand.

“Maevy,” he says, stopping short. “Maevelicious. You’re early—”